On Wednesdays, I think about my mother.
Arise, shine, for your light has come,
the daily morning prayer declares, on a Wednesday.
I hear my mother calling, “Rise and shine!”

Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has dawned upon you.
I see my mother breaking eggs into a pan, yellow
sun set upon a liquid horizon. She sings
some operatic nonsense in a language
neither of us understands.
Her face dances with the music.
I wish I could show you her smile.

My mother would not cook eggs on a Wednesday.
Towards the end, she rarely sang.
Arise, shine, for your light has come.
The glory of the Lord has dawned upon you.